


Where Night is Blind

by Wildwind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Young Adult Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4524195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildwind/pseuds/Wildwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark is an aspiring young performer, struggling to make it in the theater world and to live up to her mother's legacy. But just how far is she willing to go to take her dreams into reality?</p>
<p>Modern Phantom of the Opera AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

“Two minutes to curtain”

Sansa had heard the words so many times before, as a chorus girl. The warning always triggered the same physical reaction. Her heart raced. She would feel the sensation of her internal organs floating at will, gathering and separating, as if the laws of gravity no longer applied to her tall and graceful frame. Her skin glowing, every sensation amplified, blood coursing through her veins like an electric current.

As a chorus girl, Sansa called this “nerves”. The agonizing thought that every note, every beat practiced endlessly over days, weeks and months would slip away then, in those precious seconds before the curtain opened. Each time, Sansa was convinced would be the moment her brief, undistinguished career in the theatre would be over. She would be revealed as an impostor. A pale imitation of a legend. _That’s Catelyn Tully’s daughter?_ her mind’s audience would mock. _What a shame. She looks the part, but she can’t hold a candle to her mother._

Yet, here now, Sansa stood alone center stage. Encased in satin and jewels, every inch of her painted and sculpted, crafted to appeal to the eager crowd on the other side of the curtain. A lone anchor amidst the sea of frantic stage hands and crew swirling around her. Each performer that passed by noted the stillness and tranquility radiating from her. A beacon of calm and balance.

It was an illusion. That familiar physical reaction was still there, in full effect. But tonight, Sansa had a different name for it.

_Exhilarating._

_It’s as if he’s here with me. The Voice._

Catelyn Tully died when Sansa was seven years old. Growing up, Sansa had pieced threads together-stories from her father and family friends, reviews, recordings of her performances-in order to create a more complete image of her mother. But the memories Sansa had from her own perspective were her most treasured, as few as they were. These were the rare times that Sansa didn’t have to share her mother with an audience. When two could simply be together, mother and daughter, hidden away in their own private world.

Sansa’s most cherished memory had always been the stories her mother told. Sitting on the edge of her bed, as Sansa drifted off to sleep, her mother told her magical tales about princesses, fairies, ghosts and angels. The angels were Sansa’s favourite. How they appeared in dreams and existed to guide people to their destiny. There was even an Angel of Music that her mother assured her came to anyone who sang or performed. He was there to guard them and to guide them. Sansa couldn’t have been more than four or five years old, but this was a memory that held firmly in her mind, even as others faded with age.

This memory was how Sansa knew what to do when the note was slipped under her dressing room door.

_Midnight. Rehearsal room 4, Lower level. Come alone._

Every night, in the dark rehearsal room. Her and The Voice. A voice like nothing she had heard before. Tender, menacing; heartbreaking and mesmerizing all at once. A voice that stayed in her mind when the evening hours evaporated into day. A voice that sang to her in dreams. A voice that, when joined with her own for those precious stolen moments in the dark, electrified her and made her truly feel alive for the first time in a very long time.

Of course, Sansa never discussed this with anyone. This was a gift. Something only meant to be between her and her mother.

Yes, she had managed to get accepted into the same school her mother attended. A prestigious program for only the most talented artists and performers. Upon graduation, Sansa had landed a prize spot as a chorus girl in the same prestigious company that her mother once performed with. She would have liked to believe that she rightfully earned her place among her peers there, but truthfully, Sansa knew her position had been secured with her mother’s name.

It still astounded her, the idea that she was walking the same halls, taking in the same sights, listening to the same instructions as Cat had all those years ago. She always thought it was the only way she would ever feel that bond between mother and daughter again.

_Until now. Until the Voice_. Sansa finally felt the connection to Cat that she had been longed for again after so many years.

_And maybe, that wasn’t the only gift she sent me_ , Sansa thought. In the weeks that followed that first night alone in the dark, Cersei Lannister, female lead of Kings Landing Company, had suffered a sudden illness, completely losing her voice. Despite a company full of performers with much more experience and knowledge than her, Sansa’s name had been given to the producers as the only suitable replacement. Sansa, one of countless, faceless chorus girls.

Not anymore. As of tonight, Sansa would be the lead.

She smiled to herself, as she felt this was an unmistakable sign that her mother was watching over her.

With the curtain rising in front of her, it was time for Sansa sing.


	2. Two

She took a moment to let it all soak in.

Sansa had fought through swarms of dancers, stage hands, managers and people she had never laid eyes on before, just to get a few moments to herself in her dressing room. Countless bouquets and bunches of long stemmed roses had been collected from the stage and carefully laid out for her. Every inch of her make-up table and most of the empty space on the floor was draped in flowers.

She could barely remember what had happened. The whole show felt as if it went by in an instant. It was as if she had been hypnotized on stage; some other, stronger force taking over her body and ensuring that every note had been sung to perfection.

But whatever had happened, she had been a success. The standing ovation told her that much.

As she looked around the room, her eyes couldn’t help but fix on a large crystal vase with twenty four red roses that sat in front of her mirror. A small grey slip of paper wedged within the thorns. A single word, no name...

_Bravo._

“Sansa! Darling, you were magnificent!”

She turned to find Margaery Tyrell standing in the doorway, smiling from ear to ear. She was still in her chorus girl costume. Simple light blue satin that looked particularly plain in comparison to Sansa’s gown. Even in her simple dress, beads of sweat running down her face over her exaggerated stage make-up, Margaery still managed to look stunning, as she always did.

Sansa rushed to hug her closest friend. “Oh my God, Margaery, can you believe all of this!?!”

“Of course I can!”, Margaery gave a knowing smirk. “You are gorgegus and talented. It’s about time the producers came to their senses and put you in the lead.”

Sansa blushed and beamed with pride for a moment, before quietly asking, “You’re not mad are you? I mean, you’ve been with the company longer than I have...”

Margaery’s eyes softened as she held firmly to Sansa’s hand, “No. Absolutely not. Sansa, you were phenomenal”. Margaery’s smiled widened. “And besides, I’ve been around long enough to know how to pull a few strings if I ever want a lead role.” She gave Sansa a wink.

Sansa’s cheeks were still flushed, but her smile returned. A few years older than her, Margaery had always been much savvier about life in the theatre. Particularly, the backstage games that were required in order to survive with a successful company. Sansa was forever grateful that Margaery had taken her under her wing when she first started with the company. She doubted she would have made it this far otherwise.

“Truly though, Sansa, I’ve never heard you perform like that before. So bold! So much confidence. Have you been taking extra classes? Working with someone new?”

Sansa looked at her reflection in the mirror as Margaery admired the flowers. Her stomach twisted into a knot. Tiny pinpricks were slowly starting to appear in the bubble Sansa had wrapped herself in for these past weeks. Reality was coming to confront her.

She had thought about whether to tell anyone. Of course, Margaery knew about Cat and how much Sansa’s mother meant to her. But would it be enough? Would she really understand?

It would be a lie to say that Sansa never considered it. She had run through the scenarios in her head. _Sleepwalking? Hypnosis? A very vivid dream?_ Even the darker thought that this was her inevitable nervous breakdown, the logical end point for her after her mother’s death and the pressure of endless days rehearsal and performance.

But if she was really mentally unstable, would she have been able to sing the way she had? Would they have moved someone like that up to lead? This had to be her mother and her guardian angel. She knew how foolish it was to believe in such a thing, but Sansa was not ready to face the alternative, that she could really be losing grip on her sanity. That all she had worked for and dreamed of, her career in the theatre could slip away in the blink of an eye.

Margaery looked up into the mirror at Sansa’s reflection with a look of concern. “Sansa...?”

_No. She doesn’t need to know. I can’t tell her._

Sansa put all her effort into returning a cheerful smile to her face. “Nothing more than I normally do” she beamed. “Come on, you’re with me all day every day,” Sansa gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “When would I find the time?”

Margaery paused for a moment, a slight smirk on her face. “I suppose you’re right...Although, you’ll need to be sure to make more time in your schedule after tonight....” her smirk growing wider.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, her heart still racing. “What do you mean?”

Margaery’s grinned as she stepped towards her friend and brushed a lose strand of red hair away from Sansa’s cheek. “There is an incredibly gorgeous man backstage who has been asking to meet with you privately. He says he is an old friend of yours?”

Sansa’s blush grew deeper. _Old friend?_ Her mind was swimming. _Who....?_

“You wait here, catch your breath,” Margaery ordered, assuming a natural command of the situation. “I’ll find him and send him along in a few minutes.”

She teasingly glanced back at the large bouquet of roses and then knowingly at Sansa. “We may have discovered your secret admirer.”


	3. Three

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she had laid eyes on Harry.

He had been a tall, rowdy boy, filled with energy when his parents would visit their home. The Hardings were old family friends, and whenever they and Sansa’s parents socialized, Sansa was expected to be a good hostess and entertain her young guest. In all honesty, she never enjoyed these visits. As a young girl, Sansa was far more interested in books, songs and imaginary games. Harry had been far more adventurous and outgoing. She recalled many of these visits ending with objects being catapulted at her head from the branches of the large oak tree in the yard, when she was attempting to read quietly underneath it.

It was shocking to think the man who entered her dressing room that night was the same boy. He was still tall, of course, with a muscular build. His face was still familiar, but his round boyish cheeks had developed into chiseled features and a strong jawline. His soft brown eyes lit up as they fell upon Sansa.

“Can this really be Sansa Stark? The shy little thing I used to chase around her yard?”

She blushed reflexively. “Harry. So nice to see you again. And I could say the same thing about you.”

He explained that he was in town on business and had tickets to the show as part of a client meeting. “I had no idea you were in this. You looked so beautiful up there.”

Sansa felt wave of warmth spread through her chest. Of course, she had heard the compliment many times before. It was a requirement for someone like herself, striving for the career in the spotlight. Yes, she was beautiful, but she was almost constantly surrounded by girls who were just as beautiful and most of the time, even more so.

It had been a long time since she heard those words from a man outside of a casting call. A man who was speaking only to her.

He leaned in closer to her, his soft, inviting smile widening. “I can easily reschedule the people I’m meeting with, tonight. I’d love to take you out to dinner.”

\-------------------------

It was a relief to finally change out of her costume.

Harry had mentioned finding a place off the beaten path, somewhere where there wouldn’t be any post-show crowds. A place where they’d be able to catch up. She was thankful for that. Her hair, finally free of the multitude of pins and combs cascaded down her back in soft, vibrant red curls. She chose a simple white cotton sundress for her dinner out and was sure to remove any trace of the heavy stage make-up. She wanted to be sure Harry was able to see her “natural” face; the one he remembered from all that time ago.

As she prepared to leave, she heard the faintest scratching noise. A small grey envelope slipped underneath the door.

_Back exit, west side._

Harry had agreed to meet her in the front once she was finished getting ready. But maybe it was too crowded, too many people still hanging around....

The back exit on the west side opened into a unlit alley. A sleek black car with tinted windows was waiting for her, and the driver was already holding the door open.

Sansa thanked him and climbed in, expecting Harry to there. But she was alone in the backseat, as the car pulled away.

_He must want to surprise me._ She smiled to herself at the thought. _Is this what it’s like?_ she wondered. Moving up in the world. Playing the lead role. Having handsome men arrange romantic dinners at a moment’s notice. It was something she could easily get used to.

She had been so deep in her thoughts that Sansa hadn’t noticed the car driving to the outskirts of the city, away from the core where most of the high end restaurants were. Instead, they were on a dark road, surrounded by industrial looking buildings. There were no other cars on the road, as far as she could see.

“Excuse me”, she asked the driver, her voice at a slightly higher pitch than she would have liked. “Where are we going?”

In response, the driver pulled into an isolated side street in front of a brick building with an unmarked black door. He came around to let her out, still never speaking a word.

Sansa gazed up at the large unlit windows. _A private party? An exclusive club?_ She began to wonder how successful Harry was in his job. Was he the type of man who could afford such things?

Behind her, the car’s engine started again and drove off down the alley. Leaving her with no other choice, Sansa knocked politely, then again a few moments later with more force. When she received no reply, she pressed her ear to the metal in a vain attempt to figure out what exactly was taking place behind the mysterious door. Her hand rested on the handle and surprisingly, she found herself able to turn it and enter the building.

There was no light in the entrance, but she could faintly make out a glimmer of candlelight at the bottom of the staircase.


	4. Four

She had no way of telling how large the room actually was. The only light within the room was candlelight. She was able to see a grand piano in the center, surrounded by pages of handwritten musical score. She could make out the outlines of sketches and paintings covering the walls, but the light was too dim to see their content.  
  
“Harry?” she called out timidly  .

“I’m afraid not. Luckily, we won’t be bothered with his dull presence this evening”  
  
Sansa froze in place.  
  
_The Voice._  
  
The man walked from the shadows into the soft glow of the room. He wore black from head to toe, his shirt covering everything up to his neck. His body nearly blended seamlessly into the background. An older man, with dark hair and patches of silvery grey at the sides and throughout his short, pointy beard. At yet, something in the way his grey-green eyes glistened and his lips curled into a slight smile at the sight of her gave him a boyish, almost youthful look.  
  
She could hear her own blood rushing through her veins. _Was this real?_   When she imagined him, dreamt of him each night since their initial meeting, the man she pictured had always been a hazy approximation, his features shifting and morphing as her imagination allowed. But this was different. She could hardly believe it, but the man, the voice was a living and breathing thing, standing right in front of her.  
  
She knew that she should be on alert. She was with a strange man in a strange, dark place. Any number of things could happen to her here. And yet Sansa surprised herself in that she did not truly feel any fear deep down inside.  
  
Still, probably best for this man not to know that.  
  
“Who are you?” She demanded in a voice unnaturally loud and deep.  
  
He seemed amused by that.  
  
“You know who I am” he said. “Your tutor....although I suppose we should be formally introduced.” He stepped closer to her. “Petyr” he offered.  
  
She could feel the tears welling up inside of her. All of this time, she had allowed herself to believe in something so innocent and childish. _A guardian angel._ What a silly stupid girl she was. A stupid girl, who never learns. Still pining over her mother after all these years.  
  
As if he had read her thoughts, Petyr moved to caress her cheek. “Sansa”, he said, deeply, softly. “I know how much you still miss her. I never meant to mislead you. If there had been any other way...”  
  
Sansa looked at him through her tears, struggling to find the words. “How....how do you know about my mother?”  
  
He held her gaze for only a moment, before turning and walking towards the piano. “Your mother and I sang together, many years ago. I’ve  worked with many performers, but she was truly the greatest talent that I had ever come across.....” He let the words hang in the air, with a tone of bittersweetness.  
  
“...and that’s why you’re helping me?” Sansa made a feeble attempt at putting the pieces together, fighting against the confusion and shock she was feeling.  
  
Petyr turned and locked eyes with her. “In a better world, your mother would still be alive. Still be performing.” He moved to close the gap between them. “Truthfully,” she detected a faint crack in his voice, “you’re more talented than she ever was”. Sansa was frozen, held in place by the intensity of his stare. “Sansa, let me help you become what you truly want to be.”  
  
A part of her felt the need to run. To escape this man and his grandiose promises. But even stronger within her was a feeling of pure intoxication. _More talented than her mother. More talented than Cat._ The words cut through her, to a place deep within. It was the purely selfish part of her, one she dare not share with anyone. Sansa always knew what was expected. The good, selfless, modest daughter. One that would uphold her mother’s name and reputation. It was a loving tribute to try and follow her in mother’s footsteps, just so long as it wasn’t taken too far. To repeat the words, “I know I can never be as good as she was...” over and over to herself and to everyone she knew. And to really believe them.  
  
_But what if...?_  
  
What if this is what Sansa really wanted, the Sansa deep down. The part of herself that didn’t put everyone else’s needs and expectations before her own. The Sansa that wasn’t grateful to simply to be accepted into the company as a chorus girl, because she wanted more. _She deserved more._ She could feel this part of her growing; the fires of her ego and ambition had been stoked earlier that night at the sounds of endless applause and a standing ovation. She had tasted what it was like to share her gift with the world.  
  
_And it was because of him._  
  
“What would I need to do?” she asked cautiously.  
  
A smirk crept across Petyr’s face. He took her by the hand and lead her to the piano.  
  
“You did well tonight, Sweetling. The audience was charmed. It’s unfortunate that you were performing such mediocre material. Now, we’ll need to find out if you’re able to master a more complex piece”.  
  
He sat at the keys and began to play. There was a richness in his composition that was new and fascinating to her ears. Strings of notes brought together in perfect harmony, only to be scattered apart as the key shifted from major to minor. As sorrowful as it was, Sansa was drawn to it, overcome by the haunting melody.  
  
Petyr’s hands moved effortlessly across the keys. Long, graceful fingers were fluid in their movements, and Sansa could not help but fixate on them. His left hand, firm and forceful,  as it summoned deep, resounding chords from the lower keys, while the fingers of his right hand softly grazed the higher keys, only enough to emit the faintest trill.  
  
“You will never be able to understand music unless your mind is open” he spoke as he continued playing. “We must erase the petty thoughts of other things.... of the Lannisters....of shallow boys and their offers of fancy dinners...of any trace of the past and any pain those memories bring....”  
  
He stopped playing and rose from his place then, moving to face her.  
  
“Close your eyes, Sansa”.  
  
She did as he asked. She could feel him move to stand behind her. “Sing for me. Sing the music I played for you.”  
  
A wave of panic crept up within her. She had heard it just once, how could she possibly...?  
  
Intuitively, Petyr whispered to her “I know you want to fill in blanks, to see the notes on a page and feel comforted by the path they lay out for you.” He began gathering the lose strands of her hair together in his hand, brushing them away, allowing him access to the nape of her neck.  “Don’t give in. Deep down, you know the melody, the rhythms. Let your other senses awaken, and guide you.”  
  
Sansa, keeping her eyes closed, began to sing what he had played for her. She surprised herself in how quickly she became lost in his song.  
  
She could feel the press of Petyr’s body behind her, holding her in position. The graceful tips of his fingers caressing her neck and shoulders, gently grasping the light cotton material of her dress.  
  
“Sing” his low whisper in her ear, urging her on. His lips grazed her neck as he began to lay soft kisses there.  
  
Sansa did all that she could to keep her focus, but it became more challenging with every passing moment. One of Petyr’s hands moved upwards from her stomach, gently cupping her breast while his other hand swiftly ran up the length of her thighs. She could no longer keep her breathing regular as his fingers found their way beyond the lace of her panties.  
  
She gasped as his fingers moved between her legs in a slow and steady circular motion. “Sing for me” he hissed, as his kisses became harder, more aggressive at her neck.  
  
She desperately tried to maintain her concentration. His skilled fingers, so practiced at controlling and mastering the keys of his piano had no difficulty finding the right way to move for her. Sansa could no longer hold back. Instead of singing the next note, she softly moaned his name.  
  
Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to face him, his mouth greedily seeking hers. Sansa was defenseless. All logical thought and concern had left her mind. The only need remaining was her need for his touch. She opened her mouth, letting his tongue eagerly caress her own.  
  
He moved her to the piano bench, lightly pushing her down. His lips left hers, and Sansa reflexively groaned with disappointment. Petyr sank to his knees, moving the material of her dress aside as he parted her legs.  
  
His grey-green eyes, glossed over with lust, never left hers.  
  
Petyr’s tongue slowly rotated around her outer lips, his movements slow and deliberate.  The sounds Sansa made now were no longer notes and chords, but pants and whimpers. He built up slowly, applying the slight increases of pressure while his eyes drank in every aspect of Sansa’s reactions.  
  
His gaze only added to her pleasure. The feel of his hungry eyes locked on her, wordlessly urging her to completely lose control for him. And she wanted to. She wanted to perform for him, to show him her gratitude for all he had taught her.  
  
She arched her back, rolling her head backwards as her red curls covered the keys of his piano. She was so close and the look in Petyr’s eyes told her that he knew it. “Please” she begged in a husky whisper. She could feel him smirk as he continued to devour her, the light stubble of his beard lightly brushing against her thighs, only adding to her pleasure.  
  
It was almost too much to take, and Sansa could no longer fight against her body’s urge for release. Her hips rose in response to his touch, desperately chasing the sensation of his mouth. His hands, gripping her thighs, held her firmly in place, as he focused his lips and tongue on her aching sex. Her fingers frantically weaved into Petyr’s hair, holding him there, wordlessly begging him never to stop.  
  
Sansa moaned deeply and loudly as she reached her peak. Waves of ecstasy washed over her, taking away any thought of reality. Sansa could feel his lips, slick with her wetness, moving up from her stomach, towards her chest, finally meeting her eager lips. For a brief moment, nothing else existed, save for both of their bodies, entwined together.  
  
She had no sense of how much time had passed. She slowly opened her eyes, realizing she was still seated at the piano by herself, facing away from the keys, towards a wall adorned with sketches. Petyr was no where to be seen.  
  
A flash of red in one of the drawings caught her eye.  
  
She rose from the bench, moving closer to get a better look. After a few steps, Sansa finally realized what she was seeing.  
  
She felt faint. Large dark spots clouded her vision and she no longer felt steady on her own two feet.  
  
The last thing she remembered was a full sized drawing of a young woman, tall and graceful with long red hair and crystal blue eyes. She wore a white silk gown, adorned with jewels. A bouquet of decaying red roses in her hands. A long, sheer veil covered her face.


	5. Five

She was awake. Back in her own bed.

Sansa laid perfectly still, staring at the blank white ceiling above in an attempt to find her bearings. Sleep had come in broken pieces, scattered with images, sensations and bits of conversation, with no hint as to what was dream and what was real.

The Voice had a name; a face. He had lips, and hands....

Heat radiated through her at... _the memory? The fantasy?_ Whatever it had been, Sansa found it impossible to shake. She remained in her bed, wallowing in the haze of lust the thoughts brought her. As badly as she wanted to, she could not deny to herself that she wanted to see him again. And not only for more of his touch. She wanted the promises to be true, the potential for accomplishment, fame and admiration. The teasing assurance of stardom he had dangled before her with his words.

She had heard of these types of situations before. Almost every girl she had encountered in her time with the company had one of _those_ stories. The opportunity for a better role, just as long as she was willing to give a little to get a little....Sansa had heard enough stories to know that it worked sometimes, for some woman, but that most found themselves on the losing end of the deal. Naive girl that she was, Sansa had been convinced it would never happen to her and if it did, she would never lower herself to such an exchange.

_An exchange. A transaction. A trade._ Sansa’s heart sank as the reality of what happened to her became fully formed in her mind. They had both got what they wanted, didn’t they? He had trained her, maneuvered her into a staring role and in return, he had taken his reward. It dawned on her that his words about her talent, about knowing her mother had all been in service to a baser goal. Last night was likely the end of her tutelage.

It was clear to Sansa that she needed to forget what had happened, so that she could focus on her work, on maintaining and perfecting her performance. She’d had practice with denial before. Her mother’s death and the experience of constant rejection that comes with working in the theatre had prepared her mind well at the art of pretending. Like a seamstress, she could cut pieces of perception and memory out of her head like strips of material. 

......

She had missed several calls and texts. Mostly messages of congratulations for her performance. And a disappointed Harry, wondering why she had failed to show last night. A wave of guilt washed over her. Oddly, Sansa was almost grateful to feel it. A sign of her usual self returning. Sansa Stark, always mindful of the needs and feelings of others.

Another message caught her eye, specifically, the name of the sender.

_Cersei Lannister._

She requested that Sansa to come into the theatre to meet with her that afternoon.

....

She walked cautiously along the grey corridor, towards the dressing rooms.

The company had been owned by the Lannister family for many years. The theatre world had been good to them, adding a steady stream of profit to their already substantial wealth. Cersei, the only daughter of owner Tywin Lannister had been groomed since her youth to be the centerpiece, with her brothers serving other important roles from behind the scenes. For the past twenty years, she headlined every major production performed there. While she may not have been the most talented, Cersei was a striking woman, with a dark, melodious voice, long blond hair, and a deviously beautiful face. This, along with her father’s net worth had made fame come easily to her.

_Had she seen me?_ There had been rumors that, despite her illness, Cersei still managed to watch the final rehearsals in the days before opening night. That she had strategically chosen a spot in the back of the auditorium, hidden in darkness, ensuring that none of the cast caught a glimpse of her.

_Would she congratulate me?_ For any other person, it wouldn’t be unthinkable. An actress praising and thanking her replacement for being able to fill in on such a short time frame. For keeping the show going at any cost. The unspoken rule that all actors are there to support each other. This is what people in Cersei’s position are supposed to make everyone believe...

Even with the door to Cersei’s dressing room open, Sansa softly knocked on the frame. “Come in, Little Dove” was the reply. A nickname Cersei had given her in her earliest days with the company. To any casual observer, the name would be considered affectionate; maternal even. And Cersei had never spoken the words without a smile. Still, a part of Sansa recoiled every time she heard it.

The woman was dressed casually, which was unusual for her. Black sweater with dark jeans, her long blond hair gathered in a neat braid that naturally fell over her right shoulder. “Sit with me”, she directed Sansa to a seat across from her own.

“From what I hear,” she began, always giving the impression that she was choosing her words with care, “Last night was a success...” Sansa could feel her heart beat increase with every second of silence between Cersei’s words. “I would like you to know just how grateful my family and I are to you for filling in on such short notice.”

Relief rippled through Sansa’s body as she let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. “Thank you” she gushed, as she felt the colour return to her face.

Cersei broke into her signature grin. “Your loyalty to this company won’t be forgotten Sansa. I hope you know that.”

“I do, Cersei, and I am so so grateful that you and your family trusted me enough to do it.” The words came pouring out of her, now that she knew that Cersei was not angry.

“Such a sweet girl” Cersei cooed. “You can breathe easier today, Little Dove. I’m sure you will be thankful for an extended rest.” Her brow furrowed; and Sansa was unsure what Cersei meant. She must have let it show on her face, as Cersei continued. “The show doctor cleared me this morning. I’ll be returning to the part, starting tonight.”

Sansa’s gaze shifted from Cersei to the mirror behind her, focusing on one of the many bare bulbs that circled it. The noise outside of the room began to pour into their space and into Sansa’s ears. Giggles from chorus girls changing into their costumes. Stagehands hammering, banging, scraping wood on wood across the stage. Scales and triads being played on a piano while a group of voices chimed in. The building was alive and buzzing with people as Sansa and Cersei sat quietly facing each other.

And Cersei knew this. Cersei, whose dressing room door was never open, had it open today as wide as it could go. _She knew_ , Sansa realized. A crowded backstage, filled with friends and colleagues. And Tywin, surely not far away. A setting where Sansa would have no choice but to accept what Cersei was telling her. No argument. No ugly crying or begging. No room for Sansa to exert any will of her own, without ruining her reputation. Sansa Stark, a generous, modest girl who knew her place, who knew better than to make waves.

She eventually returned her gaze to Cersei, and the woman’s eyes locked with hers. Despite the grin on her face, Cersei’s stare was cold, almost challenging. There was no time to consider options. The tone of Cersei’s voice made it clear that agreement was expected immediately.

“I....we’re... all so relieved, Cersei. I know everyone was so worried....” as hard as Sansa tried to sound genuine, she couldn’t manage anything but a rambling, flat reply. Her only desire was to leave that room, that building as quickly as she could, before the tears left her glossy eyes.

.....

The unmarked car returned for her that night. Sansa stepped in without hesitation.


	6. Six

Sansa was ashamed with herself. Embarrassed. _Always a stupid little girl, even as a woman. A silly stupid girl who never learns._

Talent did not guarantee success. How many times had she heard a version of these words? From friends and family members. Even her own father had warned her, long ago. Ned hadn’t wanted her to pursue this path. Too many hurt feelings, he had said. Backstabbing, cruelty, plots and schemes. He warned her that her love of music would have little to do with it in the end.

Sansa knew that he had been trying to share Cat’s own experiences with her as a warning. She recalled the whispered conversations between her mother and father, in the days when Cat’s illness had begun to make itself known. As hard as she tried, her mother couldn’t keep up with the frantic pace and daily performances. At the same time, the Lannisters took ownership of the company. A young, fresh faced Cersei became a pervasive presence nearly overnight. Such a helpful young lady, she seemed to everyone. Taking the role of Cat’s understudy. Singing the parts and covering performances her mother physically couldn’t.

_A snake in the grass_ , Sansa thought bitterly as she descended the stairs into Petyr’s studio. Her mother must have known. Cat must have made the connection before she passed. Why else would her father have been so disapproving?

But she had gone ahead, hadn't she? Foolishly believing that she was immune to the power plays. Immune to people like Cersei. Sansa’s stomach knotted as her eyes fell on Petyr, sat at the piano. Knowing that she had to tell him what happened made her feel even worse.

_Could I lie?_ she thought. Pretend that nothing had happened. That there was still a reason for them to keep meeting and rehearsing. Sansa felt a desperate need to hang on to the one thing in the past few weeks that made her feel better. That took her away from the demands and stress of her daily existence. But it was too late. The feelings of guilt had already overcome her. She had failed. Her dreams, her fantasies were just that.

_And he needed to know_. For reasons she couldn't explain, not even to herself, Sansa felt compelled to tell him everything.

She hadn't anticipated the reaction Petyr gave her. “An unfortunate development”, he responded flatly, evenly. He didn't even stop playing his composition; he was completely absorbed in his own creation.

_It was as if he already knew_. Sansa tried to fight it, but a spark of resentment grew within her. Her earlier fears, that his interest in her was purely physical, firmly took root inside again.

“Unfortunate?” she questioned, doing her best to restrain the irritation in her voice. “But this means that all of the work we’ve been doing here...together...has been for nothing.”

At that he finally paused, looking up from the keys. “I’m sorry you had to hear it the way you did." His words were sympathetic on the surface, but something in the tone of his voice hinted that he was uninterested in pursuing this topic of discussion. He returned his attention to the keys as he continued, “Cersei is a woman with many advantages. We both know that being beautiful and rich often allows those that are unworthy to gain more than they deserve. But there are other ways, Sansa....ways that will be far more important for you to learn....”

Her head remained in a fog. Self pity pulled her down within herself, like a wave, sweeping her away from more logical, practical thoughts. _Why should I expect him to understand?_ But truthfully, it wounded her to see how easily he pushed her concerns and feelings aside.

“Did you know?” she asked, desperate to keep her voice from cracking. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

He glanced at her briefly, saying nothing and continuing to play. It was shameful for Sansa to admit to herself, but she was looking for comfort from him in that moment. And it frightened her to think that her physical needs and desires may just be as strong as his.

“If you already knew, than why bring me back here?” she demanded.

His eyes met hers again and he rose from the piano.“If you think that I’m pleased with what has happened, believe me, I’m not. But this is not your concern. It is not something that should be thought of while you’re here with me. If there was any justice in the world, Cersei would not be in the position that she is now, she would not have....” he stopped himself, quickly and firmly keeping a damper on whatever information started to escape him.

He shifted then, his tone softer. “I brought you here because this is the only place you can truly be free from that unjust world. The only place that you can truly learn. You are a talented girl, but your education has only begun.”

Sansa struggled to hear his words. The weight of everything she had worked being stripped away from her was too heavily at that moment. She felt raw, as if every one of her insecurities was exposed, on display for him to see and examine in excruciating detail.

“What is it then? What else were you planning to teach me?” And Sansa began to hate how purposefully cryptic he could be, always forcing her side of their interactions into more and more questions.   
  
He moved closer to her then, faces nearly touching, sharing breath.  “It’s not enough to sing notes, words. It’s not enough to make the audience believe you are someone else. You must entrance them. Bewitch them.”  
  
It almost hurt to look at him then, to meet his gaze. The blue in his eyes had taken on a steely hue. Fortress walls, rising high within him, impeding any hint of vulnerability. He was fully in control of whatever this arrangement was between them.   
  
“Think about the last night you were here,” he continued, the corners of his lips beginning to curl into a smirk. “Your job is to make the audience forget their fears, their reservations. To make them forget what they know. To reach something deep inside of them that no one even knew was there.” His eyes locked to hers and shone with a fervent, steel blue. “ _Ravish them_ with your song.”  
  
 _Just as he had done to her_ , Sansa finished his thought inside her own head. She could feel tears building up inside then. He had admitted it plainly, even proudly. He had taken her deepest fears and secrets and used them to fill his own need. He had seduced her. And she had been such an easy mark.   
  
His words were more than a confession. They were a challenge. A dare.   
  
_Let me teach you how._  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I feel like a bit of a cheat to take dialogue directly from the show, but the "sexposition" brothel scene in s1 is such a perfect summary of what Petyr is all about. And it's disappointing that the show has never really touched on it again, esp in relation to him and Sansa and how he is teaching her. So this is kind of a tiny call back to that, if that makes sense lol.


	7. Seven

The stage was full of movement. Dancers, stagehands, extras, the choreographer. And, in the center of it all, Cersei Lannister.

Sansa sat in a nearly empty dark row in the middle of the theatre. There were several empty seats in the front rows, but she was already far too close to the rehearsal than she wanted to be. There were two a day scheduled now. Not a moment wasted in preparation for Cersei’s grand return to the leading role tomorrow night.

Margaery had the idea of meeting together for drinks after rehearsal. And now Sansa was forced to watch and wait for Margaery to finish. She watched as a world she had immersed herself in for the past several months, _a world she had loved_ , carried on without her, as if she didn’t exist.

She looked especially plain compared to the lavish costumes a few feet away. She slumped down in her seat next to Harry, causing her simple, pale blue sweater to bunch uncomfortably around her torso. Sansa felt out of place next to him, as he was still dressed stylishly in his work clothes. He was talking about something to do with real estate. She nodded often, a polite smile fixed on her face. Sansa did her best to pepper the conversation with a few “uh huhs” and “reallys?”, but it was taking every ounce of strength for her to listen to what he was saying.

She had seen him again a few times over the past two weeks, mostly due to Margaery’s convincing pleas. If she was being honest with herself, there was little wrong with Harry. He was handsome, polite and always so attentive. He knew all of the steps of this dance, what to say, where to take her, what hints should be dropped. He had been patient with Sansa when it came to more physical signs of affection. It surprised her because it felt so genuine.

And yet, she struggled to feel anything when she was with him, even though she knew she was supposed to. She knew she _should…._

The car had come back for her once, but she refused. It had not been back since. A confirmation, in her mind. Whatever game they had been playing was over. Petyr loved and poured himself into his music, but she knew their connection was something more to him. Something calculated. He showed no remorse for taking her innocent beliefs and twisting them to meet his own needs. She was just another instrument to him. A lifeless object to be strummed, contorted and controlled. Some beautiful thing, meant to be owned. Possessed. _Mastered._

This was the type of man he was. And she had walked away.

_How could he expect me to continue with him?_ And maybe he really did. Perhaps he had done this all before. _Was he so used to keeping people under his thumb, having sold themselves, body and soul, to him for the promise of fame?_

_Not me_ , she had decided. Not Sansa Stark.

The old her, the practical Sansa, knew it was a wise choice. She only wished she knew why it made her feel so miserable. So empty. Deep down, she craved the cryptic teasing and touch of a cruel man who was gone from her life. Thoughts of him haunted her every waking moment. Petyr was with her in every dream. His absence held her prisoner, preventing her from finding any joy in her days. Stopping her from accepting the tenderness and affection Harry had been trying to give. From moving on to anything greater than where she was now. Now, she was simply existing; nothing more.

Sansa settled her gaze on a piece of scenery, a deep blue canvas, punctured through with tiny bulbs, meant to look like a sky full of stars. She chose a single, specific bulb and stared at it intently, never shifting her focus to look at the scene, at Harry, Margaery or anyone else. If she did, she was certain the tears would rupture her blank stare.

It was too much to look; she could hardly bear to hear it. Cersei taking the notes she had poured her heart and soul into and twisting them to fit her own design. Taking the precious moments spent with Petyr and carelessly ripping them apart at the seams. Repurposing them, warping them into something that Sansa barely recognized.

“From the top”

Sansa’s stare was broken instinctually by the director’s call, and it took her a second to remember that she was on the wrong side of the stage. There was a brief lull in the activity. Both the seamstress and make-up women surrounded Cersei, but were just as quickly shooed away. Cersei thanked them, with a mildly pleasant smile, but Sansa was more observant now. She saw the cracks underneath the exquisitely made-up face. Cersei’s eyes gave it away. The seething resentment that she was obligated to thank people so clearly beneath her.

After a count, the opening number began again. Sansa had heard the song so many times, but it still had an effect. Certain lines and lyrics still captivated her. Tears welled up even stronger now; a dam waiting to burst as she watched Cersei cross the stage, in the same dress she had worn only weeks ago, singing the same song. _Her song_.

She was so caught up in her thoughts, that she hadn’t heard it. The noise. Almost like a faint crackle of twigs, but slowly and steadily building, overtaking the orchestra and the sounds of ballet shoes making their landing on the stage's surface. Cersei continued on unaffected. A true professional.

Exactly on cue, Cersei moved to center stage a few bars before her solo was about to begin. The noise disappeared then, replaced by a sharp, aggressive pop.

Cersei fell out of sight. A sliver of eerie silence. And then a nauseating thud.

People rushed to the stage, amid panicky screams and commanding voices calling for an ambulance. But Sansa was frozen. Her skin prickled with electricity.

_It was him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late/shorter chapter. Real life is kicking my ass rn :/. I'll still be updating, but will probably be at a slower pace. Hope you enjoy :)


	8. Eight

Sansa prayed that her memory wouldn’t fail her.

She had paid closer attention the last time, noting the turns and signs as much as she could in the darkness.

Sansa had stood there in the theatre as Cersei was taken away, unconscious. A part of her expected him to show himself. She knew it was Petyr. But he didn’t come. The crowds eventually scattered while she remained; quiet and unmoving as Harry urged her away.

She had told Harry that she was too upset to go out that night; a perfectly acceptable excuse. Most of the cast had been in tears, having to be told to go home and wait for any news. Cersei was alive when they took her away, that much she knew. But the sight of her crushed, bruised frame made it clear that her condition was dire.

The idea that Cersei was crippled and possibly close to death excited and sickened her to her core. _Who have I become?_ She had experienced death first hand with her mother and she couldn’t imagine wishing that type of a loss on anyone. But the fact that Petyr had done this. Done this _for her._ Like an animal from the wild, he had brought a fresh kill and laid it at her feet. _But why? Was it a lesson, a game?_ Or was this his twisted way of showing her deeper feelings?

Sansa had hoped the car would return, and with it an explanation. The clock passed midnight, the usual time, and still no sign. She couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to know.

The cab dropped her off into the darkened alley, and she was reassured by the familiar door. Her heart pounded. _Would he still be there? Did he need to run?_   Sansa didn’t imagine anyone suspected him. He had spoken about working with other singers before, but she had never seen him around the theatre. Still, if Cersei died and the Lannisters discovered it was him, Petyr would surely have to answer for his crime.

She entered and immediately heard music. Sansa let out a small sigh of relief. _He was still here_. She descended the stairs, becoming absorbed in the wall of sound around her. The piano keys rang out, louder and more amplified than in any previous lesson.

His studio was still illuminated by candlelight, which made it easy for Sansa to see him at the piano. But she doubted he saw her. Petyr was consumed with his music.

It was clear that he wasn't expecting anyone. Petyr’s face had days worth of stubble untouched. His hair, which Sansa had only ever seen neatly combed, was disheveled and wild, chaotic curls beginning to form as it rose from his head. A half empty bottle of whiskey sat alongside his sheet music.

Petyr was playing intensely, as if with his whole body. His fingers, hands and arms moved fluidly, with a sense of urgency. With aggression. His shirt was completely unbuttoned, flowing behind him like a cape. As Sansa approached, she saw a gash. A deep red jagged tear running from his collarbone to his navel.

She panicked. _Had he hurt himself while trying to kill Cersei?_ She moved quickly to him. Petyr’s eyes were closed and the music was so loud that she had no choice but to reach out to him. Her hand went to his shoulders.

The sound came to a sudden halt. It’s absence was a shock to her ears. Petyr turned, his eyes alight with fire.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, and Sansa’s anticipation at seeing him instantly morphed into fear.

Petyr rose from the bench, stumbling slightly. His breathing was ragged and heavy, soaking with whiskey. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She was at a loss for words, “I just…I wanted…I needed…” _Look him in the eyes. Only in his eyes._ The temptation was there. It taunted her. The urge was too strong. Sansa’s gaze left his fiery pupils, past his curled, smooth lips and fell, inch by painful inch across the wound. It had been a serious injury, that much was clear. She felt mildly faint imagining the amount of blood, bone and cartilage that must have been spilled the moment it was formed. It had healed only in the most basic sense. A thin layer of discoloured skin barely held together the distorted, uneven insides. In the dim candlelight, she could almost be convinced that the cut was still raw.

“You needed to see me? Is that it?” he mocked her concerned tone. “Or did you need to see this?” he gestured to his scar, his voice low and flat. Charged with menace. “The _freak._ The broken man.”

Her vision blurred with tears. She hadn’t known. How could she possibly have known? That he believed she wanted to mock him, to laugh at him caused her heart to crumble.

“You’re so good, aren’t you?” The words slithered out of his mouth, dripping with venom. “Sansa Stark. So moral. So upstanding.” He stepped closer, his body almost vibrating with intensity. “You don’t like how I do things, do you? You would never dream of getting your hands dirty with me, would you?” he demanded. Guilt washed over her face. As much as the words stung, she couldn’t deny that there was a ring of truth around them.

“No, Sansa Stark doesn’t get angry at what life has done to her. You don’t get angry about your mother. About Cersei. But you have no trouble reaping the rewards. Admit it, you felt pleased when you realized what happened to Cersei. The result of _my_ work. _My_ deceptions. And then you come here, to stare, to mock me like an animal in a cage!” He roared at her.

So much careful planning and control had gone into all of this. Into convincing her, tutoring her. Into carefully removing Cersei from the equation. It was terrifying for Sansa to see the man who was always so controlled give it up. To see him lash out at someone trying to reason with him.

Her face completely reddened. Sansa was ashamed and embarrassed. “I won’t stand here and let you scream at me,” she said, her voice broken and tearful. She turned and began to walk away.

 _How dare he call me weak? How dare he assume that I wasn’t angry about my mother? That I’m still not angry?_ It had been a choice. Sansa could have easily become angry and bitter at the world. Could have cheated, manipulated, taken advantage of the weaker people around her. _Of course I could have._ It would have been so easy to play that game.

She stopped before reaching the door.

She would show him.

_I'll show him how easy it would have been._

She turned around slowly. He had moved to the bed in the corner of the studio, the whiskey not far from his grasp. Petyr looked up as she approached. There was a change in his eyes. The flames had died down, leaving deep blue pools. Still waters, open and empty, with no horizon to anchor them.

She stood in front of him. Slowly, Sansa brought her hand to his face, gently tracing a soft trail down his jawline. She leaned in and kissed him. She started softly, but felt no movement from him. Sansa indulged herself, quickening her pace and letting her tongue meet his and her fingers caress his hair. Anything to ignite a spark within him, to make him realize this was not a cruel joke she was playing.

After a few moments, she paused, shifting her head back to meet his stare again. His eyes had widened, the emptiness increasing. He ran his tongue across his lips silently. She could see that Petyr was trying desperately to stay detached, not to let her in. Not to allow his internal walls, the ones he had spent years building up in the wake of his injury, fall apart because of her.

But she knew her way through....

Sansa bowed her head, bringing her face closer to his chest. She felt the heat radiating off his skin. His heart beat furiously; a war drum calling her to action.

She closed her eyes and leaned in. Her lips grazed his raised skin. Her mouth slowly, deliberately began tracing the outline of his scar. Sansa was eager to explore this mysterious thing that split him in two. She could hear Petyr groan as she moved lower. Hearing him like this, open, unguarded made the heat build between her thighs. _One of us needs to stay in control_ , she tried to remind herself as her thoughts began to cloud over with lust.

Her hand moved further down his torso, and was met with an outline of hard, solid flesh inside his pants. She looked up again. The emptiness in his eyes was filling now with hunger. Sansa felt a shockwave travel straight to her core.

She stood, quickly and silently slipping her panties off underneath her skirt before returning her attention to him. Before Petyr could react, she unzipped his pants and moved herself onto his lap, straddling him. She held his gaze and used his shoulders to keep steady while she lowered herself onto him.

The sensation of having Petyr inside her took over all of her thoughts. Their mouths found each other. His hands moved greedily over her, leaving no part of her untouched. She rocked her hips slowly at first, but his body quickly moved to meet hers, steadily driving himself deeper inside as she moaned.

Sansa wanted to stay in control of this, but any command she may have had already slipped through her fingers. She pushed him back onto the bed, grasping desperately to his shoulders as she rode. Petyr’s lips found her neck, then her breasts, while his hand moved between them, teasing her. She frantically slid over him, chasing the surge of pleasure he infused her with. The silent room filled with their weighted sighs, moans and the sound of bodies moving together in steady tempo. A perfect duet.

Her eyes met his again and she couldn’t wait any longer. Sansa gave into herself, reaching her peak. She buried her face into his chest, into the rift that split him as the waves of her orgasm crashed within her. Petyr was not far behind. She sighed as his warmth spread through her. Petyr’s fingers wove themselves into her hair, reining her in and moving her steadily, helping them both come back to reality.

After a few more blissful moments, Sansa collapsed into his chest again. Small, but growing waves of anxiety took her over. She had learned his secret, broken down his walls. _But were there more secrets waiting on the other side?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was basically an excuse to write a version of the scar scene that I'm dying to see (vulnerable Petyr, with Sansa taking charge), but that the show will never give us (*weeps*)


	9. Nine

Sansa closed the dressing room door behind her, savouring her first moments alone all day.

Things had happened quickly. Once it became clear to everyone that Cersei’s recovery would be long and difficult, Sansa was asked to resume her role as lead. She instantly found herself thrust back into theatre life once again. Rehearsals, costume fittings, promotional events.

She was exhausted. And Sansa loved every minute of it.

Any reservations she had were easily pushed away. In fact, it frightened her how easy it all was. Avoiding Margaery’s invitations to lunch. Ignoring Harry’s calls and messages. Every night, slipping away to see Petyr. Every night, slipping into his bed.

_They wouldn’t understand_ , she justified to herself. _They don’t know what this means to me._ Margaery, despite never being in a starring role, had looks and sensuality as her advantage. Harry had never wanted for anything is entire life. The keys to success had been laid at his feet. The right schools, the right friends, the right connections. There wasn't a blow that hadn’t been softened for him. He’d never experienced true pain. _Not like I have. Not like Petyr has._

Singing with Petyr was overpowering; intoxicating. Every night, the rest of the world ceased to exist. He knew her pain so viscerally, letting it bleed through his music and his words.

Petyr had shared nothing about the source of his disfigurement and Sansa hadn’t brought it up again. Curiosity still held her, but the idea that he could close himself off to her; could push her away... Sansa couldn’t bear the thought of that.

A soft knocking sound came from the other side of the door.

“What?” she said, exasperated. But she stopped herself when she saw a familiar face enter the dressing room.

Olenna Tyrell was one of the founding members of the company when the theatre opened in the 1950s. When Sansa was still a new performer, she spent hours gazing up at the photographs covering the hallways between rehearsal rooms. Olenna had been a stunning woman. A featured dancer in too many productions to name. In her later years, she became the den mother of the younger dancers. The wise mentor. She was one of the few performers who were around from the time before the Lannisters took over. Sansa had always enjoyed spending time with Margaery’s grandmother, listening to old stories. She had worked with Cat, which made Olenna one of the few remaining connections Sansa had to her mother.

Olenna hid her age behind sophisticated dark coloured ensembles. Her long grey hair was always tied tightly in a bun; still the spirit of a ballerina after so many years. Despite the lines and marks of time passing on her face, there was a spark of mischief in her eyes. Much like her granddaughter, her eyes sparkled and shone with life, especially when gossiping and sharing secrets.

“Olenna,” Sansa smiled. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were the stage manager. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Olenna let out a soft chuckle “Quite alright my dear. I don’t blame you. You’ve probably barely had time to breathe today with all they’re putting you through”. She smiled to herself. “I remember how it goes.” She paused slightly, raising her head to look Sansa in the eye before speaking again. “I always found taking a walk helped clear my head at those times.”

Sansa hesitated. “I’d love to, but I’m due out….to meet with some friends….” A lie. The car would be arriving soon to take her to Petyr.

“Sansa”, There was seriousness to Olenna’s tone. And something inside her told Sansa that she didn’t have the option to refuse this request.

The building was empty and nearly silent. Rehearsals for the other cast members had ended some time ago. Things were different when you were the star. It was oddly peaceful as Sansa and Olenna walked the halls. As they passed the windows, the familiar glow of twilight emerged, the street lamps and city lights slowly taking over for the sun.

“You’re a natural,” Olenna complimented her. Sansa couldn’t help herself from blushing.

“Your mother was a natural, too. It’s so easy to see the similarities between you two”.

“Really?” Sansa couldn’t keep the swell of pride from building up within her. “Honestly, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear. That’s what I’ve been working so hard for.”

Olenna smiled bittersweetly. “Poor child. It should be Cat here telling you these things. Such a tragedy that your mother was taken from us so soon. There were so many things that she could have taught you.” Olenna paused briefly, her smile slowly fading. “Should have warned you about….”

They stopped walking, and Sansa found they were in the darkened hallway adorned with old cast photos. Olenna moved to stand in front of Sansa, the look of concern on her face beginning to grow. Her eyes moved from Sansa up the wall.

Every year, all members of the company posed for a group photo. The wall was filled with them. Thousands of young, energetic, hopeful faces. The photo they stood under was of the cast the year her mother began there. Sansa knew it well; she had come here to look at that photo many times. But something she had never noticed caught her eye. A young, dark haired boy to the right of her mother. He couldn’t have been more than 20. A bright, youthful Cat smiling right into the camera. The boy’s face, blissful and filled with adoration, was turned towards Cat.

Sansa’s heart stopped.

_Petyr._

“I remember when your mother’s group first came to the company.” Olenna shared. “All those fresh faces. Ignorant of the rejection and pain that this place would dole out to all of them eventually. As talented as she was, Cat was naive. She needed guidance, as all good performers do. But she had it inside her. The looks. The voice. The talent. It was only natural that other talented, creative people flocked to her.”

Sansa struggled to stay focused. Petyr told her that he had worked with her mother in the past. Hearing him say the words was one thing. Seeing the way that Petyr stared at Cat in that photo was another.

“Petyr Baelish.” Olenna continued, “One of the few cast members that wasn’t from a known family with means. No famous name. No old money connections to rely on. He had completed his music training under a full scholarship. Another natural talent. I’ve never heard anyone compose like him. The ballads he wrote brought people to tears. It was thought, by those in charge at the time, that inviting him into this company would help refine his skills and talents. And it did. The day he came here was the day he found his muse.”

Olenna turned to meet Sansa’s eyes. “Creativity is a curious thing. Unaffected by time or place, class or social standing. Just two artist’s souls, focused on a single thing. Such an intimate thing. Spending hours, days with one other person who understands and shares the same passion as you. Working, guiding and feeding off of each other. Petyr and Cat were both in love with this life, the life and work of an artist. Petyr, a poor boy who grew up with practically nothing, craved love and had so much love in him to give. He didn’t just write love songs. He believed every word of them. Petyr was convinced that love and destiny had lead him to a woman who truly understood him; had lead him to Cat.” Olenna looked away then, a sense of disappointment in her tone. “Cat loved Petyr’s compositions, loved to spend time with him, to watch his mind work and create. Sadly, Cat didn’t love Petyr. Not in the way he wanted. The way he needed. Petyr needed something all consuming, the way that love consumed him.”

Olenna’s eyes moved up to another photo. Cat and another man, who was clearly not Petyr. This man was muscular and ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled, well defined jaw. With his deep brown eyes and flowing brown hair, Sansa thought for a split second it was her father. But Ned never had any interest in music.

She examined the photo closely. Ned had a brother who had passed away before Sansa was born, but her father rarely spoke of him. _Could it be?_ She continued to stare as Olenna continued on.

“Brandon Stark's talent was of a different kind. A smooth, deep commanding voice. And the looks of a man’s man. A brave soldier always ready for a fight. He sang and performed what was given to him, but nothing more. He didn’t need to do anything beyond that. Women already swooned over him. His inflated opinion of himself was never questioned, always reinforced by the beauties hanging on his every word. Being made the male lead of the company just made him even more brash than he already was.”

Olenna took Sansa’s arm and they resumed their walk. “Your mother was so young. She had been a good, doting daughter before she came here. Always playing by the rules. A handsome young man from a wealthy family; everything young ladies are supposed to want. But I think it was that wildness; the unpredictability. It was a thrill for her, the first real excitement in her young life. She either didn’t see his aggressive, cocky side, or it was all part of the appeal. And how could Brandon refuse having a girl as sweet, innocent and beautiful as your mother hanging onto his every word?”

They had entered the main theatre now, nearly covered in shadow, save for a few scattered bulbs illuminating the sparse stage. “Cat and Brandon were cast together in so many productions. Petyr wrote and arranged the scores for quite a few of them, in fact. After all, he wrote such beautiful music for Cat. Truthfully, it was painful for everyone to watch. The management offered Petyr the chance to step down more than once. He never would. Day in and day out, he tortured himself, watching your mother fall deeper and deeper in love with Brandon, and he with her. Serving penance for a sin that only Petyr knew. Maybe the sin of believing that someone like Cat would love a poor boy like him.”

The were mere feet from the stage now, the soft glow of light illuminating Olenna’s pupils. Sansa was grateful for the dimness. Her mind raced so quickly that she didn't have the energy to hide the emotions that were surely showing on her face.

“One of the productions they put on was a romance adventure. No expense was spared. Every backdrop, every costume, every prop was as realistic as possible. Brandon had been drinking that day; although, if I’m being honest, Brandon drank most days. He came to rehearsal prepared to put forward the least amount of effort required. Even your mother was annoyed, although she did her best to hide it. They made it as far as the dueling scene before Brandon became really agitated. He resented Cat trying to manage his behaviour, trying to control him. And Petyr, watching from the orchestra pit, had finally had enough. Before anyone could think to stop him, he leapt on stage and give Brandon a piece of his mind. Still with a small thread of hope that he could convince Cat that he was who she truly belonged with. He was a dammed fool! He knew the swords were real.”

Olenna’s eyes moved to the stage, and for a moment Sansa wondered just how vivid the memory was for her. “It was a terrible, awkward shouting match. But it only got worse. Even with how drunk he was, Brandon still remembered the choreography of the fight scene and how he had been taught to handle the sword. Petyr didn’t know what hit him, until it was too late.”

Olenna turned away from the stage, like she couldn’t bear to look at it even now, all those years later. “I remember the blood, the screams, Cat’s scream. And Petyr. White as a ghost, deflated. I remember the agonizing way he called out for your mother; the pained whisper. One last question. Cat gave him his answer the moment that she ran to Brandon’s side.”

Sansa felt the swell of tears building up inside her as she continued to listen. Olenna gently took her hand. “You know well enough that your mother and Brandon didn’t last. The wild nights of drinking, of overindulgence, of entitlement didn’t stop after that. Even your mother had her limits. She refused him. Brandon drank himself info an early grave. I believe that the day your mother met your father was the day of Brandon’s funeral.”

Sansa’s mouth was dry, but she forced herself to speak. “And Petyr….?”

Olenna looked at her with a serious gaze. “He was never seen within these walls again. Disappeared without a trace. Rumors swirled that he finished himself off soon after it happened or that he’s withering away in some dingy asylum somewhere. Or so most people believe…”

Olenna’s eyes met Sansa’s briefly, giving her a knowing look before shifting her gaze up to the empty balcony closest to the stage. “But, some of us know better, don’t we?”


	10. Ten

The grey sky stretched out to the horizon as Sansa entered the cemetery. Summer had slipped quickly through autumn’s fingers, leaving a cool, temperamental air in its place.  
  
The leaves crackled underneath her feet as she headed towards the familiar stone building. Olenna’s parting words still rang in her ears. A warning that the sweet and naïve boy she once knew was now a dangerous, unpredictable man.   
  
She reached the edge of a small hill and spotted the mausoleum. A weather-beaten stone facade emerged through thin, regal columns. The word “TULLY” was etched over the entrance, book-ended by carvings of two opposing trout. They watched silently over the stone path as Sansa reached for the door handle.  
  
She walked wordlessly among the copper plaques bearing the names of her ancestors. Long forgotten great aunts and uncles, hidden behind crumbling rock and pale green tablets that had weathered decades of harsh winters and damp springs. As she continued on, the names became more familiar; the plates less worn. She stopped and stood in front of the last panel, still holding on to it’s tawny gleam.  
  
The bile rose in Sansa’s throat as she struggled for words. _I didn’t know. You never told me....You weren’t here to tell me._ Her chest filled with a harsh ache of guilt. Her mother would have been deeply disappointed. Sansa would have given anything to be faced with her mother’s disappointment; with her anger and disgust. Instead, she stared at Cat’s name, her confession met with silence. She stared, knowing that her mother’s voice would be a sound she would never hear again.   
  
The feeling was all too familiar to Sansa. Anger at everyone and everything. Rage without direction, with no one to catch or tame it. It refused to leave her. She had hidden it deep down in the darkened corners of her heart. But again and again, it rose. The illusion shattered, and Sansa remembered that she could work hard, sing beautifully, earn countless friends, fans, dollars and lovers. Nothing would bring her mother back.  
  
She heard footsteps behind her and, in a foolish moment, Sansa convinced herself it was a dream. Cat would be there, waiting to dry her tears and reassure her that she would be alright.  
  
But when she turned, her eyes feel upon Petyr. He was cloaked in a dark peacoat; a thick black scarf tied tightly around his neck to ensure no hint of his scar was exposed. The darkness of the mausoleum helped him stay bathed in shadow; the glimmer of his eyes the only way to track his movements. He held a single red rose in his gloved hand. Sansa felt sick to her stomach with realization. _Who is the rose for?_   
  
“I needed to see you” he stepped forward, closing the space between them. He seemed less self-assured than Sansa was used to, and she wondered if it had to do with where they were standing. She wondered how often he came here on his own.  
  
She turned from him, keeping focused on her mother’s name. Sansa positioned herself in such a way that he had no choice but to look at it. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Sansa watched his eyes closely, wanting to see what would happen when he was confronted with his past.  
  
“When were you going to tell me?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as she could.  
  
“I’m sorry that Olenna upset you.” Petyr spoke slowly and carefully. “She shouldn’t have shared that much information.”   
  
“Why not? So that you could keep it from me forever?” it quickly became impossible for Sansa to maintain a calm tone.   
  
His eyes met hers, “You didn’t need to know. It doesn’t change anything.”  
  
 _Liar._ The anger continued to build, to the point where Sansa wanted to scream. _After everything we’ve been through, he finds it so easy to lie to me._

  
She spoke loudly, forcefully, even as her voice began to crack. “I’m not an understudy. Some replacement girl with the same red hair and the same voice that you can pile all of your broken dreams onto. That’s not me, Petyr.”   
  
His lips curled into a bittersweet smile as he reached for her shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was a flat, rough whisper. “You never asked me because you didn’t really want to know, did you?”   
  
She shook her head, but he griped her harder, holding her inches away from his face, forcing her to hear his words.  
  
“The past is dead, Sansa. You of all people should realize that. And what are you left with? Pain. Hopelessness. A life where the wrong people, people like the Lannisters, will always win.  Why live that life? Why hang your hopes on Harry or on the others that you know will just hurt and disappoint you? You could leave it behind....”   
  
His lips found hers, pressing her against the stone wall. Her mind struggled to break free while her lips responded instinctively to his touch. After a moment, he moved on to her cheek, then her jaw. He buried his face her neck. “It’s where you want to be, isn’t it? Making music with me...Only me...”  
  
It was darkly comforting; the idea of her and Petyr against the world. Hiding away, nursing their wounds together in a place where nothing could hurt them ever again. For an instant, her childhood dreams of a life, a husband and a family of her own fell easily away from her mind. Sansa was detached, as if she was watching herself on a stage, acting out a scene. But it didn't take long for the fear to wash over her again.  
  
She pulled herself away, “What happens when you remember that I’m not her?” Sansa’s eyes found Petyr’s again. “Or when my voice doesn’t sound quite the same?” She waited for him to respond, the thought continuing in her head. _What happens when we both get tired of pretending? When we can’t give each other what we need?_ Sansa spoke again, the words unsteady in her throat, “What happens when you realize I can’t take away what happened to you?”  
  
His body was frozen. The emptiness that Sansa once saw behind his eyes slowly returned. The barriers she had broken down built up again at full force.  
  
“If that’s what you believe....then you aren’t the woman I thought you were.” His grip on her shoulders loosened, allowing her to fall back against the harsh stone.  
  
She was drained. Too tired for tears. Too tired to chase Petyr’s version of comfort. Forcefully, Sansa brushed past him and walked out into the chilled autumn air. The sun had set and the wind whipped leaves into twisted funnels around her feet.  She walked without direction. Her eyes welled up with the salt of tears with every passing second.   
  
“Sansa!” a voice called behind her.   
  
She had no idea of how much time had passed or where exactly she was in the sprawling cemetery.  
  
Sansa turned her head. It surprised her to find Harry making his way towards her, his overcoat bristling in the wind and a look of concern crossing his face.   
  
“You must be freezing” he reached to engulf her into his coat, and Sansa let him. She let herself be comforted by his warmth, by his kind words.   
  
“Margery told me she was worried about you. About how you are always sneaking off. How no one can seem to find you anymore.”  
  
At Harry’s kindness, she burst open, crying heavy tears against his chest. His hand went to her hair, gently stroking the long red strands.  
  
“Sansa, it’s OK. I’m here. Come on, let me take you home."  
  



	11. Eleven

The car door opened and Sansa reached out to take Harry’s hand.  
  
The cool  winter air washed over her like a wave, and she quickly covered her shoulders with her white fur wrap. Softly falling snow dusted the steps of the theatre and clung to her satin gown as they walked into the main hall.  
  
The annual fundraiser and announcement of the company’s new season was always an extravagant affair. Warm, golden light from the chandelier in the center of the vaulted ceiling bathed each guest coming in from the cold. The theme for this year was a Masquerade. Everybody in the room was someone important, glimmering in elaborate, colourful disguises. More importantly, everyone in the room had money to spare. Money the Lannisters hoped to their hand on.  
  
Despite seeing it so many times, Sansa still found herself fixated on the sparkling crystals above her head as Harry removed her wrap. Her eyes moved across the detailed, rich artwork covering the surrounding ceiling. Her gaze floated back downwards and fell upon the banner announcing the newest production due to begin in just under a month. The bright, youthful face of Marcella Lannister-Baratheon beamed from above the title.  
  
Sansa had finished a very successful run as lead of the previous production. She hadn’t been asked back, of course. Even after several months and her discharge from the hospital, Cersei wasn't ready to take the stage again. She had scarcely been seen, absent from all of the key social events. From the Lannisters' point of view, Marcella was the only choice to replace her.  
  
“Sansa,” Harry’s voice broke her stare. As she tuned towards him, her heart jumped in her chest, in spite of herself. She still wasn’t used that mask. The yellowed, decaying face of a skull with black mesh sewn over the eyes was almost too realistic; too much on the gory side. Sansa had told him as much but he was too amused by it to change his mind. Harry's mask, along with the blood red lining of his black suit, was in direct contrast with Sansa. Her mask, the shape of a dove in flight, was made from smooth white silk and dotted with tiny emeralds around her eyes.  It went well with her gown, white satin with fur trim. The paleness of her skin and her gown served to make Sansa's hair all the more striking. The soft, red curls gathered to the side and cascading down her shoulder.  
  
Harry moved his hand along her left arm, but paused as he reached the bare fingers of her hand. He looked up at her, hurt in his eyes.  
  
“You’re not wearing it” he sighed.  
  
Sansa’s face flushed, embarrassed. It had already been a week since she had opened the small velvet box to find the largest diamond she had ever seen. She had been flattered and flustered. Of course, she and Harry had been spending so much time together since that day in the cemetery. _Since the last time I saw Petyr…._  
      
He had been nothing but kind and faithful to her. Planning romantic days and evenings for just the two of them. Giving her a shoulder to cry on wherever and whenever she needed it. And it couldn't be ignored that Harry was a man of means. His penthouse apartment, access to a private plane, dinners at the most exclusive restaurants. Perfectly chosen gifts. Of course she said yes. _Of course, what sane woman wouldn’t want all of this?_ Yet Sansa had made him promise to keep it a secret. “Just for now” she had reassured him. But she had no end date in mind.

_Until I'm sure Petyr's really gone...._  
  
She could see the frustration in his eyes, “It would have been the perfect evening to announce it, Sansa. Why keep it hidden?”  
  
“Look at this fabulous couple! Could that be Sansa and Harry?” Margaery cooed, heading over to them. Sansa and Harry took one last pained look at each other before greeting their friend. Sansa was extremely grateful for the fact that she was wearing a mask.  
  
The conversation with Margery lead to more socializing, as Harry moved effortlessly from group to group with Sansa in tow. The room was full  of warm bodies and she was desperate for fresh air and some quiet. After a while, she excused herself and stepped out onto one of the balconies, the sounds of the party drifting away behind her as the glass doors closed.  
  
It was a crisp, cold winter night, instantly flushing her cheeks a deep red. But Sansa was grateful for the rush of cool that swept across her shoulders and up her legs. Her breath made small clouds of mist before her as she looked out onto the city. A soft blanket of snow and moonlight covered everything and she could faintly make out the sound of snow and ice crunching beneath feet of the people below.  
  
_I’m going to miss this so much._  
  
The thought pained her. Harry had such a successful year in his company that they offered him a promotion. A contract in Europe as a company representative. Sansa by his side, his beautiful, amiable wife. Jet-setting, schmoozing with executives. Maintaining their lavish home.  
  
She was giving up music. It had been already been decided. Sansa would have a home. She would have a family again. Even if it was only Harry and her, for now….  
  
The heat of tears filled her eyes and she hastily wiped them away, cursing under her breath.  _I’m such a fool._ She had everything that most women dreamed of. _So why am I still haunted by thoughts of Petyr?_ Every night, as she was held in arms of her fiance. Harry held her body while her mind stayed consumed by another man. She often wondered if Harry could tell. Could sense something wasn't right. _He may even be more of a fool than me._  
  
Thinking of Harry made her realize how long she had been standing outside alone.  
  
Sansa moved gently, ensuring that her satin shoes didn’t slip on the powdery snow below her feet. Entering the glass doors again, her eyes scanned for her fiancé in the sea of masked faces.  
  
Before her eyes could adjust eyes any further, a black gloved hand reached for hers. Instantly, she was on the dance floor in a full waltz, guided by Harry’s firm and assured hold. The flush in her cheeks from the cold stayed with her. She had never seen him be so bold, so direct.  
  
The couple moved gracefully, making it look as if they were floating. Harry knew how to dance, of course, but Sansa couldn’t recall a time when she had seen him move so smoothly, with such command. There was a different air about him. He held her close. A sense of urgency, of possession in his movements.  
  
  
Sansa felt the familiar rush of excitement move through her as she searched the black mesh where his eyes should be. Maybe it was the glitter of the costumes around her. Or all of the champagne she had been drinking. Instead of Harry's familiar brown, she swore she saw hints of green and grey in the eyes staring back at her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Bn4BAlp8NQ :)


	12. Twelve

Harry moved quickly, whisking them both out of the ballroom, down the hallway, into a rehearsal space.

Sansa giggled as they continued to waltz. The music had faded away, overtaken by the sound of their feet echoing through the empty room. The only light a thin ribbon of gold streaming in from the open door, cloaking them both in shadow.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven for not wearing my engagement ring?” she asked, in a playful, pouty tone. He froze then, but only for a moment. Before Sansa could speak again she found her back pressed against a wooden barre fixed on the wall length mirror. The smooth silk of his gloved fingers wove their way into her soft curls before sharply tugging at her hair, causing her to gasp. She saw the outline of his hands move to peel away the bottom half of his mask before his lips quickly found her exposed neck. She expected Harry’s smooth, shaven skin against hers; instead, the sensation of facial hair sent a shiver of excitement down her spine.

“Petyr?”

His hand firmly covered her mouth while the other removed the mask. In the shadows, Sansa could still see the glint in his eyes, the outline of his disheveled hair and the movement of his tongue as he licked his lips. Petyr returned his attention to her neck, the hand over her mouth never moving. It could be that he was protecting her, trying to quiet her from giving them both away to anyone passing by, but Sansa knew better. It was a challenge. A dare not to cry out with pleasure like she so desperately wanted to.

His other hand began lifting her dress away from her legs. The slow, deliberate movement of his fingers along her thighs causing the ache between Sansa's legs to grow. After a few more agonizing moments, Petyr reached his destination. The silk of his gloves deliciously smooth over his firm, assured fingers. Sansa blushed at his touch, her scent filling the space between them, revealing just how badly she wanted him to continue.

Slowly, steadily he moved his fingers between her slick lower lips; Sansa’s ragged breaths caught in the palm of his other hand. Her eyes went to the open door. In another time, another place, she would have been too preoccupied by the fear that someone, anyone, _her fiancé_ , could enter at that moment. They would see how shameful she was. The way her hips rocked into a masked man’s greedy touch. The way she bit at his glove to keep herself from breaking. But this was not that place and time. Sansa found herself without even the smallest hint of shame at that second. There was desire. Lust. Nothing else.

Petyr’s hands left her, turning her to face the mirror. Both eagerly drinking in the sight of the other in the glass. His hands ran along Sansa’s arms, moving out towards her fingers. Guiding her to the barre, bending her forward, wordlessly urging her to hold herself there. His fingers swiftly lifted the back of her dress, exposing her thin, lace thong. Petyr’s thumbs grazed the material, freeing it from her hips and sliding it to her knees, before undoing his own belt and zipper.

Sansa felt the heat against her bare skin. Hard, thick, teasing. The tip of him moving in lazy circles around her entrance as she held her breath. Tiny moans left her as she arched her back, silently begging for him to enter. She caught his reflection in the mirror, watching her, waiting to see which one would give in first. Sansa couldn’t help herself. Her need too strong. It would be her.

“Please," the guttural moan coming deep from her throat.

Her plea was enough to satisfy him. Sansa gasped as he filled her, mesmerized by reflection in the mirror; by the fluid motion of Petyr's hips as he took her. And by the sight of this masked woman, gripping the barre, bent over, half undressed, begging to be taken. Writhing and pleading for more. 

Petyr’s fingers moved along the front of her thighs, sliding the length of his forefinger across her clit. As badly as Sansa wished for the moment to last forever, the urge to break was far too strong. She closed her eyes as she reached her peak, taking him in deeper, desperately clinging to the wave of pleasure he had created inside her.

After a few moments, the heat of Petyr's body left hers. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.


	13. Thirteen

The tap of Sansa’s heels against the marble floor mimicked her racing heart. Her movements echoed throughout the empty hallway, sounding louder than she expected them to.

 

The sensation of the air rushing past her cheeks, cooling the flush of heat that remained there helped to calm her, but Sansa felt off balance. His scent still lingered in the air along with the sensation of him inside her. She worried that everyone in the ballroom would know the odd mixture of shame and satisfaction she felt at that moment.

 

She heard no music as she approached the doors, and a wave of panic built. _Could I be dreaming?_ And if she was, why had her mind chosen such a cruel trick to play?

 

The heavy wooden doors challenged her hope of slipping back into the room without notice. She heard the voice of authority, Tywin Lannister, making his keynote speech to the crowd. Luckily, his words held the crowd’s attention over the sounds of her entrance.

 

It would be no trouble finding Harry. _He’s always where he should be_. Her fiancé stood near the front of the stage, surrounded by a group of important people. His gruesome mask had long been removed; Tywin commanded respect and Harry was nothing if not respectful. _I wonder if he even noticed I was gone._

Sansa closed the distance between them, softly placing her hand on his shoulder. Harry turned in silence giving her a steely stare, but she could see his confusion and hurt under the surface. Her cheeks continued to burn. They wordlessly agreed to settle the issue later; she did her best to pretend to be absorbed in Tywin’s speech.

 

It was strange to her, feeling so disconnected from his words and the future of the company. Her mind drifted back to Petyr, and as hard as she tried, Sansa’s frantic heartbeat refused to steady. She shifted in place, the dampness between her legs a reminder of the chaos he brought with him.

 

Chaos she welcomed with open arms.

 

It took so much for Sansa to resist his pull over the past few months. She worried that, without their regular rehersals, he would disappear; something she knew he was capable of. _He’s already done it once_. The transformation from Petyr into the man he was now. The name he insisted she call him was only an empty gesture. _Petyr_ was gone, long abandoned. She was unsure how to think of him now. He may have disguised himself, tricked her into thinking of him as an angel, but one look in his eyes told a different story. _An unconvincing disguise for a man like you, my love._

 

Even though it had only been spoken within her own thoughts, the word startled her. _Love_. The feeling she had towards him was nothing like love she had experienced. Nothing like what she was promised. Maybe it was the worry she would never see him again. That he would vanish just as quickly as he had appeared in her life. A bitter sting seeped into her head as she recalled the past few hours. What else could you call what had passed between them. Petyr had already used and abandoned her in clearest way possible….

 

Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness. Sansa felt as if someone shook her, trying to wake her from a violent nightmare.

 

Gasps and flickers of drunken giggles rippled throughout the room. Tywin sternly barked for maintenance to address the issue. She heard Harry’s voice, lighthearted and joking, working to calm the crowd around them. While his voice may have been light, Sansa flinched at his grip on her arm, flexing, ready to protect what was his.

 

Seconds later, light returned to the chandelier overhead. The sense of relief felt by the crowd was short-lived, as all eyes fell upon the person on stage, one that hadn’t been there before.

 

Petyr was still in his costume, but the mask was gone. Sansa felt her heart jump up in her chest. Showing his face for the first time in so many years; he might as well have been carrying a bomb. She could see the cold, determined gleam in his eyes. He was fearless. _What would he do? What could he possibly do?_

 

Whispers spread amoungst the older members of the crowd. _Baelish_. There was no doubt that he had planned on being recognized.

 

Tywin’s face froze in rage.

 

“Why so silent?” Petyr said, almost joyfully, his voice echoing off of every wall. “You didn’t think that I had left for good, did you?”

 

“Security” Tywin gritted through his teeth.

 

“I don’t think you want to do that. I may not have been in your presence for the past few years, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t listened to your words. Your motivation is clear, the same as it’s always been. The Lannisters are about money, bottom lines and profits. Lucky for you, I hold the key to your desires.”

 

He raised his hand, a tightly wound roll of papers held in his grip. “I’ve written you a new production.”

 

Tywin scoffed. “Why would I even consider putting on a production of yours?”

 

“Because I wrote the greatest scores this company as ever seen. You remember, don’t you? And, I’m afraid I must correct myself. There _is_ one thing you value beyond money…”

 

A cold glare was exchanged between them. When Petyr spoke again, his voice deepened, his tone was severe, “I could have killed Cersei if I wanted to. I still could. And Marcella could meet the same fate.”

 

Gasps spread throughout the group. Tywin’s eyes remained locked on the man, but he cautiously stepped aside. The floor was Petyr’s now and he held the attention of every soul in the room.

 

“The production will go on. With conditions, of course. Beautiful Marcella should be taught to how to sing. She will need it for her role in the chorus. The lead role of my production will be played by Sansa Stark. No doubt she will do her best. Her voice is good. But she knows, if she wishes to truly excel, she has so much to learn, if her pride will let her return to me, her teacher.”

 

His words pierced through her heart. She felt almost ashamed for what he was doing. It was low, petty and lacked his usual intelligence. He turned to face her then. Neither of them spoke aloud, but Sansa knew what his stare was meant to say.

 

_Your chains are still mine. You belong to me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm very sorry for the huge gap! Urgh, writer's block + laziness. This chapter feels a little meh for me tbh, but I wanted to get back into the habit of writing regularly again. Hopefully it will get better lol.

**Author's Note:**

> I was always a fan of POTO when I was younger and see a lot of similar themes in Petyr/Sansa's relationship, so thought I would try a modern crossover. This is my first ever attempt to write fic for anything, so I hope you enjoy :)


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